


Old Songs and Fake Stars

by GretchenSinister



Series: GretchenSinister's Quicksand Week [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Lingerie, M/M, both of them are ace here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: For Day 3: Lovely LingerieI didn’t watch Blade Runner as recently as this fic might imply.
Relationships: Pitch Black/Sanderson Mansnoozie
Series: GretchenSinister's Quicksand Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669195
Kudos: 6
Collections: Blacksand Short Fics





	Old Songs and Fake Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr on 3/27/2014.

“Tell me you had a better day than I did,” Pitch calls into the abandoned warehouse, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls and getting muffled in the maze of fantastically clothed mannequins that face the freight elevator like some mutant army. He presses the heel of his hand to one eye where the rain made his scramble makeup run. His palm comes away black and he wipes it, irritated, on the dirty black canvas of his pants. It’s always raining in this city, always dark, the neon never goes off, seems like a simulation someone forgot about but who would make a sim with such shitty weather, who would program shitty makeup that wasn’t waterproof into a sim with all this rain?

“We’re rich!” Sandy calls from the heart of the maze.

“But…” Pitch mutters to himself as he ducks under the arch formed by the arms of a mannequin wearing a glittering wedding dress and another in a miniskirt and fireman’s coat.

“We could buy some real nice stuff if we had IDs,” Sandy continues.

The IDs. The eternal problem.

Tulle. Chiffon. Taffeta. Silk. Wool. Feathers. Smooth plastic breasts, smooth metal crotches. Heads like ostrich eggs, heads like half-spheres, toothy smiles and misplaced eyes painted on with nail polish. Pitch breaks free of the mannequin maze and catches the towel Sandy throws at him with one hand, immediately beginning to wipe off as much scramble makeup as he can.

The towel, starting off grayish, is nearly black by the time his face is mostly clear. Recognizable as a face to any camera. Thankfully, there’s only one camera here, and he trusts the operator.

“You know, most people use water to wash,” Sandy comments, smiling at Pitch from his perch on a tattered chair once upholstered in striped mauve silk.

Pitch smiles back, his teeth white and sharp in his black-streaked face. “You mean from the rain barrel?”

“Yeah, well, we’re kind of behind on our water bill.”

“You want me to melt my face clean off?”

Sandy rolls his eyes. “We already drink it and you’ve been out in it all day. Come on. I want to look at your face.”

When Pitch returns to where Sandy’s sitting, he’s turned the large, slightly cracked monitor so Pitch can see it without crouching down. Pitch whistles at the number on the screen. “You didn’t show your whole face, did you?”

“Of course not! I still think of the future sometimes. I…found some people who didn’t want to see me. There were more of them. They paid faster…when I threatened to undress.”

“So you didn’t have a better day than me,” Pitch says. There aren’t any tracks in the fine coating of gold glitter on Sandy’s round cheeks, but Pitch always did make sure to buy him the best makeup. “Fuck ‘em. Rich assholes who can only get their rocks off by looking at people who look like they’re starving, who are probably literally starving, because of the system they made? I couldn’t manage to care about what they thought if I had ten years training and a stimplant.”

“There’s enough for IDs,” Sandy says. “There’s enough to go somewhere where it’s cold. Where the sun shines on snow. We could wake up when it was light and go to bed when it got dark, because there’d be a difference. We could go somewhere we wouldn’t even need to scramble. All the ads would be for hot cocoa and flannel pajamas, cause that’s what we’d buy, and that’s what we’d drink and what we’d wear and at night we’d look up and there’d be _stars_ , Pitch, _stars_. I feel like I remember stars,” he finishes, trailing a finger through leftover glitter on the scarred wood of the desk.

“So do I,” Pitch admits. “But you know why we can’t get IDs. We’d have to pass the test. And if we didn’t…”

“Run, run, run, bang.” Sandy sighs and takes Pitch’s hands. “There’s all kinds of ways we could have lost our memories.” He traces circles on Pitch’s wrists. “I love you, Pitch. I love you so much. And you love me, don’t you? I know you do. Isn’t that enough proof that we’d pass the test?”

“I love you,” Pitch says. “I don’t know if that’s proof.” He looks into Sandy’s eyes, into that bright gold that someone must have chosen at some point. But who? And when? Both vitally important questions.

“There’s enough for North to test us.”

“And if we fail? Then he knows. He’s not dumb enough to risk his neck for harboring.”

Sandy makes a noise of disgust and pushes himself out of the chair. He walks over to the vast, many-paned windows, diaphanous robe trailing behind him. It’s hard to read all the neon through the grimy glass, though the cracked panes let in a few spurts of the ever-present rain. “I hate this city, Pitch. I hate it. It’s all I remember and as far as I really, really know, the whole universe could be like this.” He whirls back to Pitch. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to go somewhere better, or force this place to be better. We don’t deserve this city. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“I’d rather stay in this city for five years and expire than write my own death sentence in a week,” Pitch says.

“Dammit Pitch! We’re human!”

“Sandy…look, can I at least show you what I brought back? I’ve got dinner for us, too.”

Sandy plunges his hands into the pile of silks, satins, and velvets that Pitch has returned with. “This is wonderful,” he says, pulling out a pair of shimmering stockings. “You got stuff for yourself as well, I see.”

“It never seemed fair…”

“Pitch,” Sandy says. “There’s something else I finished when you were gone, and I want to show you it, but before I do, I want us to make ourselves beautiful as we can. Like we were going to go sleep in a palace.”

They get ready behind water-stained dressing screens, robes hanging from the edges so they can wait to show themselves to each other until Sandy reveals what else he’s been doing that day.

Pitch, for his part, can’t wait to see what Sandy’s done, and the way that he’s added to the glitter on his face and put on some deep gold lipstick while letting his freshly washed hair curl loosely around his shoulders only intrigues him more. He wonders what Sandy thinks of what he can see of him, black-rimmed eyes, black lipstick, and only the lightest of shimmers on his pale skin.

They reach a clearing in the mannequin maze, and Pitch’s jaw drops in surprise.

“The Palace,” Sandy says quietly.

It looks like he’s created it with only the best of what Pitch’s managed to find in the ID-free market, nothing make-do here. The outer ring of mannequins has been draped in swathes of dark blue and green fabric, some of the patchwork quality of it explaining why a few of the mannequins’ gowns had gone missing. Inside that ring, Sandy’s placed every fake plant they’d ever found, and a few others look as though Sandy’s made them himself from wire and cloth. They’re all strung with tiny white lights. _Stars_ , Pitch thinks. In the center of the clearing there’s a hexagonal tent made of a myriad of fabrics, all in colors like an old photo of a sunset, suspended using the outer mannequins. More little lights are strung inside, revealing a large mattress covered with bright, clean sheets and many, many pillows.

“Take off your shoes,” Sandy says, leaving his own behind as he goes over to the tent and retrieves something from behind one of the walls.

Through his stockings, Pitch can feel that the floor is absolutely clean, like everything else in Sandy’s Palace, like nothing else in the city.

“Dance with me?” Sandy asks, and Pitch nods. Sandy turns on the music player he’d left in the tent, and the sound of an old, old song fills the clearing.

_Stars shining bright above you_

_Night breezes seem to whisper I love you_

_Birds singing in the sycamore tree_

_Dream a little dream of me_

Neither of them knows how to dance, but they hold each other’s hands and sway in a close circle. _Where did you find this song?_ Pitch wants to ask, but doesn’t. This is a moment that shouldn’t be possible in this rotting carcass of a city, and he doesn’t want to ruin the magic, even if he knows the magic is nothing but old music and fake stars. It feels like more, because Sandy made it.

When the song ends, they stand motionless for a long moment, embracing. “So what’d be get all dressed up for?” Pitch asks, and Sandy steps back and smiles, dropping his robe with none of the preamble he has for the camera. Mostly, he’s wearing gold glitter like that which covers his face. On his body, the sheen it lends to every soft curve makes him look like a golden pearl. The only interruption to that shine are a pair of black briefs and a black garter belt, both with small embroidered gold decorations. The stockings the belt holds up are sheer black, the top openings edged with black and gold lace.

“I feel overdressed,” says Pitch, and lets his own robe fall to the floor. He’s let the shimmer from his face break up into glimmering trails down his shoulders, chest and back. Some of these trails disappear behind a black corset heavily embroidered in gold leaves and flowers. He wears this above his own set of briefs, garter belt, and stockings, all mostly gold with black decoration, the inverse of Sandy’s.

“I was hoping you’d choose the matching set,” Sandy says. “You look beautiful.”

“As do you,” Pitch says, and Sandy smiles and gestures toward the tent.

The mattress is soft, comfortable, and that, to Pitch, almost seems like it really must have taken magic. He kisses Sandy’s forehead and cheeks, and Sandy kisses his hands. “This is wonderful, Sandy. Just wonderful.”

“It almost seems like we’re out of the city, doesn’t it?” Sandy says, and kisses Pitch on the nose before snuggling deeper into the nest of pillows around them.

Pitch nods, and drapes one arm over Sandy. “But don’t you think…” He knows he shouldn’t bring this up, not now. “Don’t you think this shows how we might not pass the test? Shouldn’t we…want more?”

Sandy sighs. “Do you really think that? Do you? Pitch…” He traces the outline of the shimmer on Pitch’s arm. “What more could I give you, in this city?”

“You’ve given me more that this city could bear,” Pitch says. He hugs Sandy closer, wanting to feel the comfort of his warmth. It’s the truth, and Pitch knows with all his heart that Sandy shouldn’t be in this city. “We’ll get North to teach us how to administer the test,” he says. “He’ll know we wondered, but it’s not enough to endanger him or us, if we keep quiet about it. We’ll test each other. If we pass, then we’ll leave.”

“I knew you’d figure it out,” Sandy says, smiling against Pitch’s shoulder. “I’m already thinking of the new palace I’ll make for us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments from Tumblr:
> 
> tejoxys said: bbys. ;__; Also, Sandy’s palace made me think of bowerbirds, and I’m finding it unbearably cute.


End file.
